A Manly Meal

Connor's one of the shorter boys on his baseball team and he's been wondering if there's anything he can do to grow faster.

We've pointed out to the kid that the cause is likely his pernicious penchant for cereal--gross, stale, cardboard tasting, cereal--which has probably stunted his growth. Turns out lucky charms ain't so lucky. Connor would be happy eating cereal for every single meal. I don't even buy the massively sugary kind either. But it doesn't matter. If you turn your back, he'll eat it for lunch and dinner and for the four or five snacks Connor inhales each day. Life for that sneaky boy is Cereal, Cereal, Cereal. The kid has rarely used a fork.  
(I just know that his terrible taste buds are most likely the result of a young and naive parental proclamation: I once swore I'd NEVER have a picky eater.) 

But recently we've decided to draw the line and made a bold declaration: If the meal doesn't start with a B, it ain't coming out of a Box. At the Skillman house, there's now A prohibition on any food that's doused with milk. 

And it seems to be working--at least we think it is. With Connor's new-found interest in health, chiefly his height health, he's recently heeded our admonition to expand his palate and eat more manly meals which will make him grow.

But from the looks of things, apparently he didn't hear the part of our rally speech that included the words "leafy greens" as his first foray into a real man meal was to broaden his gastric intake with meat. Just meat. This was his idea of dinner last night, in which he made claims that he thinks it'll make him grow...

One bun, hold the mayo. Big beef patty, eight bacon strips (which were mostly eaten before I snapped a pic). Oh, and cheese, all on a very macho paper plate.

Our next declaration may have to be for meals that require a fork.  But I guess we're making some slow progress. It's better than cereal.

Label Lunacy

All I really meant to do was to tame my rag-tag spice cupboard.

I got tired of mismatched slapdash spice bottles cluttering my shelves.  It seemed I could never find the spice I was looking for and ended up buying another bottle only to discover not only did I have that particular spice the whole time, but that I had at least two or three opened bottles of it crammed toward the back of the shelf.  Argh!

I commenced a surefire recipe to subjugate my spices: 
I bought a bunch of deli containers from the local restaurant supply store and then went out and bought one of those new-fangled wiz-bang label makers and  (this next part was a big mistake) plenty of extra label cartridges. 



Then in a fastidious fit that lasted a mere half hour, I conquered the cabinet:

But of course I couldn't just stop there.  My little pantry project escalated into a label mania. No sooner had I finished making my spices all neat and tidy, I was overtaken by an unexpected new passion and became enchanted beguiled by my new label maker.    Soon I was labeling things that didn't even need a label.

Then the kids got bewitched by the machine and started labeling things of their own:

Connor labeled his baseball collection:

Mitchell labeled his collection of computer parts:

and Chloe even labeled her phone:

Quickly everyone in the family discovered that it was possible to be the author of a label and remain blissfully anonymous--impossible to trace. With this new revelation we were soon all fighting over the sticker spewing gizmo and found all kinds of things that had far too long gone unlabeled:

 

 How have we ever lived this long without this extraordinary contraption? It's revolutionized our lives...anonymously.

Commitment-Phob

I must confess that I have serious commitment issues.  Long term relationships are just not my thing.  The one exception is for my husband Mark. Bless that man. I'm not sure any other guy could put up with me or my bizarre shenanigans so I'm fully committed there.  But all other commitments I am quite terrible at. This is why I don't have a manicurist, a hair dresser, or even a doctor that sees me regularly. I just can't commit to seeing other people on a regular basis--even my extended family only sees me on the rare occasion. So my nails are boring and plain, my hair gets cut on a whim by any hairdresser that's open (which occasionally goes really wrong like the time a lady mistook the word "LAYERS" for "MULLET"), and my doctor only sees me when I get sick--which is never--because I can't even commit to having the flu for more than 24 hours. Appointments looming in the future just freak me out. The fact that I've promised to see someone at a specific hour and date sometime in the future just makes me squeamish. Weird, I know.

But it seems that life over 40 is soon going to force me into going steady.  I keep finding gray hairs and I worry that this sort of demonized lamentation will eventually force me to succumb to a rolling appointment schedule with a hair-colorist. I break out in a sweat just thinking about having to schedule time to do this every six weeks. With the SAME person no less, because she's the only one who knows how to "mix my color just right" or so I'm told. But what's a graying girl to do?

Most gals love having their hair done but I've always been one of those awkward no-fuss sorta gals. I like to wear make-up and look nice to some degree but I just don't like gossiping with a gaggle of girls in a salon permeated with stink while I forge my meager attempts to get pretty. But the gray is coming in and I fear a crisis is unavoidable, my care-free non-committal days are numbered.

Unless I just go gray.

Seriously, it's been done. But really? Has it come down to that? Personalities like Stacy London embraced the gray with that bizarre streak in the front of her head but I think she looks like Johnny Depp in Sweeney Todd--and she's MY age for pete's sake. Doesn't Stacy know that those misplaced gray patches bring to mind folks like Bill Clinton's mother NOT forty-somethings--and most especially NOT for forty-somethings named Stacy.

But Lady Gaga even went gray and so did Kelly Osbourne, some sort of weird trend that seriously just made them look drab and old. Even Pink did it. But in my opinion they crossed the line into decrepit agedness waaaaaay waaaaaay too early.

But with all this gray-gone-wrong...Maybe it's time to c...c...c...I can hardly say it...(gulp) ...commit.

But then my mind starts to invent all kinds of random scenarios on why seeing a hairdresser on a regular basis could be bad.  Like the whole prison issue, for one. What if I start coloring my hair and then end up in jail?  Seriously, this sort of possibility is no laughing matter. I've seen women on TV doing interviews from jail with 3 inches of ghastly grow-out upstaging their prison-televised diatribes. And while I certainly have no plans to break the law and end up with a parole officer, these sort of problematic possibilities creep into my graying head. WHAT IF? Because once you start coloring your graying head of hair you are in for life. There is no parole there, jail or no jail. You've got to maintain it FOREVER.

Or what if you color your hair for so long that when your eyes go bad you don't even know you've turned yourself into a certified real life blue-hair? This is all seriously dangerous territory.

So here I sit, totally indecisive, on the border between my carefree days of non-committal youth and a wretched future of appointments with a slew of folks I pay to help me curb the rapid decay of old age that is suddenly creeping up, growing out, or sagging.

There are lots of decisions to make.  Grow old GRAYsfully or fight it all the way? And of course, I just can't seem to commit to either plan.

The Tooth Fairy is a Slacker

Seriously, what is up with the Tooth Fairy these days? If you or a loved one has lost a tooth recently, perhaps you've noticed she has gotten a bit scatterbrained. The Tooth Fairy I remember from my childhood was a fairy that was on top of her game. Always prompt, always had cash, and always showed up in the right place and always  right on time. But nowadays it seems to me that she has lost her toothy touch. My poor children Chloe and Connor have seen a far cry from the one I remember. Of late, she's visited the wrong room, suffered some confusion on exactly which pillow to look under, and even skipped over them entirely, only to shamefully show up after three or four attempts on our part to leave a dang tooth. It is all very disturbing.

Take our last dental dilemma for instance.  Chloe lost a tooth and straightaway put it under her pillow.  She even popped it into a cute little envelope and wrote a note on it--albeit a passive-aggressive note from a kid who appears to be destitute for a little extra cash:

Now perhaps the confusion over our latest tooth submission may have started because Chloe has a guest sleeping in her room and so she was sleeping in Connor's extra bed. However, bed swapping or not, according to Chloe this shouldn't have caused even the slightest of problems for our fairy-ed friend since she had heard from several sources that "the Tooth Fairy has "X-Ray Vision". I've heard this little tidbit myself many times and I'm inclined to think it's reliable information. Everyone knows the Tooth Fairy has stealthy eyes and can see really well in the dark. But x-ray vision or not, the Tooth Fairy missed Chloe's tooth completely. We were both bewildered in the morning when poor Chloe discovered she had completely forgot her sealed up tooth. It was very disappointing. Chloe was sad because she'd been skipped over, and me--quite frankly, I started to get a little worried about the mental clarity of our little tooth taker.

As I pondered the dilemma, I felt a little empathy for the Tooth Fairy, it certainly can't be an easy job. So I suggested to Chloe that we should cut her a little slack--perhaps she may not be getting enough sleep these days. I even proposed to Chloe that she might brighten her evening rounds by leaving her some chocolates along with the lost tooth and see if that doesn't help put us all in her good graces and solidify us as her all-time favorite donors. I assured Chloe that she would likely never forget us if we give her a little incentive.

But this tooth tardiness was serious business and Chloe and I came up with an equally serious plan to remedy the situation: we decided to write a "strongly worded note".  The Tooth Fairy probably needed a little direction and should clearly be told that Chloe had a guest sleeping in her room and that she and her lost tooth could be found in Connor's room. I had Chloe go and find me some paper DOWNSTAIRS while I grabbed a writing utensil UPSTAIRS, and then upon Chloe's return we began our lengthy epistle to the Fairy.   As I was writing,    it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps the Tooth Fairy may have simply left her dental deposit beneath the wrong pillow. I told Chloe to go and check under her guest's pillow in her bedroom--just in case. Sure enough, as I was penning the words "cease and desist", Chloe shouts from her room that there was indeed two whole bucks under the wrong pillow! [heavy sigh.] What a relief! She had not forgotten at all! She had just had a momentary lapse of x-ray vision. And believe me, this can and will happen as you get older. It is something I have in common with our mysterious fairy.

Luckily it turns out that the Tooth Fairy may not be the biggest slacker after all. Bad vision? Yes. Occasionally forgetful? Yes. Suffers from pillow confusion? Yes. But I have a feeling she'll be more prompt next time now that she knows there's a little dark chocolate incentive waiting for her on her next pick up.

Shot Bloks and Big League Chew

Ever since Mark started competing in races and triathlons and finishing with pretty impressive finish times (for a grandpa), Connor has dubbed his dad his own personal sports guru and he's been keeping a keen eye on exactly how dad manages to stay on top of his game. Unfortunately Mark, aka "Mr. Guru", has a dirty little secret. Often times Mark's races start in the wee hours of the morning when all the participants are forced to take 4am bus rides out to the starting line. In order to jump start himself at such a groggy hour, he's has been known to drink a Red Bull to get him up and going. Then, at several times during the actual race he fuels himself with Shot Bloks. Mark's teetering on becoming our family's resident Barry Bonds and poor Connor's been taking notes. 

This baseball season Connor's suddenly got the big idea that his mid-game could use a little oomph too.  So on his way to baseball he's gotten in the habit of asking his dad for a few Shot Bloks to keep in his gear bag just in case his energy dips during a game.

About the 4th inning you'll look into the dugout and see Connor chewing on "electrolyte chews" and I'm wondering if I should be worried. First it's Shot Bloks and next he'll be hooked on Big League Chew, which we all know leads to an even greater addiction: sunflower seeds.

I've decided I may have to implement some sort of random drug testing program around here in case the kid decides to move past shot bloks and sunflower seeds and begin the slippery slope to a stint in rehab by enhancing his game with Red Bull. While he could use a little 4th-inning electrolyte oomph for his swings, the one thing this kid certainly doesn't need is wings. 

Quotable Connor

Mark: "Lets let mom pick a movie and we can all watch it tonight and hang out together for Mother's Day."

Connor: "Great. She's gonna pick a yoga video, I just know it."

 

Premature Granding

Old people.  I really never planned on being one. Unfortunately it happens without your consent and in my case it officially happened four weeks ago, the day my oldest daughter Cheyenne turned me into the "G" word.

G-G-G Grandmother.

Honestly, it still stings to say it. My ears ring and my vision worsens and the only thing that makes it feel better is holding my new grand baby. And frankly, when this little baby is near, in the swirl of my new Senior-ity, it's actually pretty sweet--just don't tell anyone I said that.

My Premature Granding began with a phone call. Chey rang to say the doctors had decided to induce her labor two weeks early because she was showing signs of pre-eclampsia. As a result, Mark began running around the house groaning with his own set of pains which he then described as an acute case of  pre-GRAMPsia. (Good one honey.) With one phone call I suddenly found myself packing up my car and heading south, literally and figuratively. I was officially becoming old. And I actually had to get in my car and drive to it--my official old-ness. After 10 hours speeding my way to a far off delivery room, narrowly escaping the mother of all traffic tickets, I arrived in time for the big moment.

Little baby Kendra was born. 7lbs. 4oz. 19-inches.

This grandmother thing, it's terrible. It's turned me into a complete and utter sap. I coo, and fuss, and even occasionally talk baby talk. It's totally pathetic...and yet absolutely wonderful all at the same time. Who knew?

While I held this tiny little girl, somewhere in a glorious intoxication of new baby smell, a small hushed whimper, and a loud boisterous baby burp (a belch that completely outmatched her size), I realized something.  This grandma gig ain't that bad after all.  It was then that I had a vision--albeit a blurry grab-your-reader-glasses kinda vision--but a vision nonetheless. I began to picture a whole new me. Far from the pragmatics of parenthood, being a grandparent allows you to loosen up a bit. Bedtimes, well-rounded meals, these things aren't my problem. The whole idea of breaking all the rules from regular parenting and spoiling the child rotten has real appeal.    An evil grin spread across my face and I realized I could do this grandmother thing. Like Michelangelo painting the Pope's ceiling, this could be my greatest work.

With that thought in mind I decided that from day one this little baby and I were gonna have some fun. And although we spent the first couple of weeks with poor little Kendra in the NICU (which would explain my long neglected and barren blog) I didn't let it stop me from enjoying my new found calling: Gregarious Grandma.

 For the first few days Kendra had to wear an eye mask...

...so I stole a Sharpie off the nurses desk and made it prettier,

then I told everyone she gets her eyes from her grandma:

And when they finally let her wear clothes, 

I fished through the NICU's pile of onesies and

decided she needed something adventurous to wear:

Any baby girl can look cute and precious,

but I thought she should sport a little attitude.

Soon I became known as "that grandmother" amongst the nurses. But I left a little levity in an otherwise gloomy hospital, and little baby Kendra and I were having as much fun as you could possibly have with a PIC line in your head.

Happily little Kendra has been paroled from the hospital and is healthy and dreamy as ever. And me? I'm finally back home and indulging in my new found hobby: Unorthodox Grandma.

No Wonder We Didn't Get Invited

Ahhhhh, Royal Weddings. A spectacle to behold. But for curious princess loving ten-year old girls at THREE IN THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORNING, it's a spectacle that must be recorded and watched at a more respectable hour. And thanks to the brilliant invention of the DVR, Chloe and her cousins did exactly that. Tape it for later.

We finally got around to watching the royal nuptials last Saturday night. At the very last minute we decided to throw a little viewing party which was, admittedly, not as classy as the royal occasion probably deserved. While the real thing was a meticulously organized and very methodical affair, planned down to the very second--ours was pathetically quite the opposite. More of a shabby, ragtag last minute deal, quickly and haphazardly thrown together which would classify it as a "shin-dig" which is ever so slightly more elegant than a "tailgate" party.  Either way, it was Decidedly American. 

While the royal family and their guests celebrated with fine dining, I went to the market and scrounged up a package of McVitie's HobNobs, some digestives, and a batch of overly sweetened scones. But it was the best we could do.

In an attempt to bring a little manners and decorum to our pathetic little viewing party I made one firm requirement:

There must be hats. 

No proper British wedding can happen without them. Period. And so I told our Shumway cousins no one will enter unless they wore a hat. That should bring a little more civility to the party right?

Wrong.

When my doorbell rang I realized that only in America could this sort of hat party happen.  Seriously, look at this rag tag group of people wearing "hats":

No Wonder We Didn't Get Invited.

I don't even know where to start.

But if I must, let's take Aunt Wendy first. I think she's wearing a floppy sun hat, like the kind you wear to go sport fishing or lawn weeding. But at least she had the manners to pull out all her favorite fish hooks from the brim before coming.

Then there's Josh wearing a coon hat.  Coon hats are fine if you're on a coon hunt, or perhaps you're Benjamin Franklin trying to impress Frenchmen with your American ruggedness so that you can ask them to help you fund your plans for independance.

Then Mark wearing a rally cap as if it were a baseball game and we were shamefully behind in the score. Which in this particular event, I think we now qualify as a bunch of losers and the rally cap suddenly now seems quite appropriate.

Next to him is Sheralyn in her grizzly swim cap. Which is perfect for a swim meet.  Then again, perhaps Sheralyn is wearing it in honor of Prince William taking "the plunge". In which case she's clever and cheeky--something we've suspected for quite some time.

Then there's the princess adoring girls in the back row.  Obviously they took the occasion as a more serious affair and wore more suitable hats for the occasion.  But if you look real close at Chloe's white hat you'll discover a dirty little secret...

...I couldn't find my hats!  Chloe was terribly upset that her cousins were coming with hats and she was hatless.  So what's a mother to do when I've already pronounced a hat edict and my own daughter is shamefully hatless? Well of course you grab three paper plates, some elastic, and load up the stapler:

Delicious don't you think? Chloe is quite lovely in her paper plate extravaganza.

As we replayed the recording and watched the real wedding guests arrive, Connor got a view of some of the crazier hats worn to the wedding and he was suddenly overcome with a burst of creativity.  He decided to make a statement about how ridiculous some of the hats were and came up with this beauty:

Connor's Trix Hat. 

Wouldn't he look dapper if he'd gone as Princess Beatrice's date?

So our little wedding party was pathetic, but the little girls were highly entertained by the traditions and etiquette that is clearly lacking back here in the States. Meanwhile the rest of us ate our digestives and "accidentally" pushed fast forward a few times to speed up the whole affair.  But if anything good came out of this is was a very important lesson we learned:

There is a reason Americans don't require their guests to come wearing hats. It's not a pretty sight.